I awake to the feeling of blood rush to the brain, which is a funny feeling to have when you’re supposed to be horizontal. Here I am, half hanging off my bed, head pointed towards the ground like an intoxicated Batman impersonator.

I hear footsteps outside the door. They stop. A voice starts singing, badly out of tune.

Wake me up before you go-go...

The Glen has arisen from his dungeon of a bedroom and is attempting to make breakfast. I dismount the bed and slug lazily out of my room, wearing my mooing cow slippers.

How now brown cow, Glen says in really shit British accent.

He thinks that he has just made the wittiest remark of all time. I walk over to the stove where he is wreaking havoc.

This coming from a man that is wearing boxer shorts that have ‘support and hold down here’ on the front of them, I murmur.

Glen is too busy to think of a comeback. I think that maybe he considers it to be a complement to be acknowledged about his obscene boxer shorts. I sit at the counter, waiting for the nasty surprise of a breakfast that Glen has in store. It will most likely to be bread, fried on the pan with butter, topped up with a mystery ingredient. Melted chewing gum perhaps?

Once, Glen had prepared a saucy little number with strange looking herbs sprinkled on the top. It was only once I had consumed it and went to feed the fish later that I discovered that about five tablespoons of fish food was missing. I still feel ill when I think about it, mostly during the times that I go to feed the fish, but strangely I feel a stronger bond to them. But that doesn’t stop me from hiding their food from Glen between feeding times. The man has an iron stomach. I’m glad that we don’t own a dog.

Shit! Yells Glen, running around the kitchen, arms flinging like a TV evangelist, boxer shorts covered in hot egg and butter.

He runs into the bathroom, turns on the shower and stands under the cold water, soaking his groin.

Alison wanders out from her bedroom, rubbing her eyes, disorientated.

What’s wrong with Glenny?

He burnt his manhood. I’m sorry but you can’t have any horizontal gymnastics until the cast comes off.

What doesn’t kill him can only make him stronger. So what’s for brekkie? Or am I to assume that it was lost in the carnage? she replies.

I’m afraid that the toast didn’t make it. How about I get some croissants on my way to get the paper? By the time I get back you should be done kissing it better, I say, walking back to the bedroom.

I can hear Alison making various cooing noises to Glen in the bathroom, no doubt trying to reassure him that the shorts are going to make it. I bend down to look for my watch and find them under my jumper and next to the video. I think back to the night before and then decide that I am the most daggy person in the world…or maybe just Brisbane.

Why am I so bad with the opposite sex? It has to be a chemical imbalance in the brain or something. I remember that my mother used to always tell me that you don’t have to be a rocket scientist in order to get a boyfriend, but I think that you at least need to be pulled aside in class or something to receive some great pearls of wisdom in that department.

I recall each horrible experience one after another. Being punched in the face when I was nine years old by a boy on my own basketball team. Being feared by the opposite sex in high school due to my outlandish hair-do. Telling blokes that they are of a lower intellect when they are acting like yobbos. Then it all boils down to the video incident with Chris.

Glenny will be ok, but I’m afraid that the shorts are no longer with us, says Alison from the doorway.

I kick the video under my bed, along with any hope that I will be able to walk into the video shop again. I pull on my jumper and grab my keys.

And they were such a lovely anniversary present as well, I chuckle, walking into the kitchen.

I can hear Glen in his room, making various shooting and explosion noises. There he is, a man of twenty-four, lying on his belly, playing with little plastic war-figurines like a sadistic general.

According to Alison, Glen or Glenny as she calls him has been a figurine player from way back. In fact, he is so into it that every Friday night, various other figurine nerds come over to our unit and partake in various battles that rage all through the night, fuelled by various shots of alcoholic beverages.

Every Friday battle has a theme. Last week it was Hawaiian shirts and lays and the week before that it was the Rocky Horror Picture Show. This week it is the Garden of Eden. I can see Glen’s costume hanging on his doorknob, as if warning the other occupants of what horrors lie ahead. The costume consists of beige underpants with a big piece of plastic fig leaf stuck to the front.

It has to be big in order to hide the serpent, I recall Glen saying jokingly as he was ‘making’ his costume.

Alison stood next to his crouching figure at that moment, shaking her head, no doubt questioning herself on how she ended up with a man that plays with plastic soldiers with other grown men, whilst scantly clad in beige underpants. Oh, and we can’t forget the fig leaf. God knows I can’t.

Lindz can you grab us some more fish food on your way out? Asks Alison from the bathroom, scraping off the remnants of Glen’s shorts from the shower floor.

Righto.

I am sure that this time I am picking the brand because the last one tasted bad…or as bad as I can imagine fish food to taste. It’s not like I have tasted that many brands to call myself a practicing fish food critic. I wonder if you have to complete a Uni degree to get into that field. Maybe when Glen finishes studying PR, he can become a pet food critic lecturer.

I can imagine first year students wandering into the tutorial to witness Glen, standing behind giant trays of unlabelled pet food products, spooning them into the open mouths of volunteers, whilst explaining to the rest of the class the importantance of describing the taste and texture...